Breaking Bad finale review: truth sets a man free. [SPOILERS]

This review is written in some haste. Apologies for choppy writing.

Breaking Bad‘s finale aired last night, and at first, it felt a bit incomplete. There weren’t many surprises. The machine gun really was for Uncle Jack and his Nazi crew. The ricin actually did go into Lydia’s stevia. Walt died shortly after achieving what he needed to do– kill the remaining threats to his family, arrange his money to be given to his family, do his best to keep Skyler out of prosecution, and free Jesse. The finale was extremely tense, but everything went as it was supposed to. It was like the (intensely satisfying, and initially victimless) train heist “Dead Freight”– until Todd fucked it up and brought back the evil. Where was the horrible twist that everyone expected? There wasn’t one.

On reflection, I realized that that was the twist. Walt didn’t exactly “get away” with his crimes– he died alone in a meth lab, and his children will credit his ex-business partner for the benefit he’s conferred upon them. However, it was a happy ending, at least, as happy as it could be, given the horrors of the first 61 episodes. Let’s look at it:

  • Eliot and Gretchen, who (regardless of the still unresolved backstory with Walt) didn’t deserve to die, lived.
  • Walt finds an ingenious way to make sure the money will go to his children, as planned.
  • No one more in Walt’s family died, and threats to them have been neutralized (machine-gunned, ricin-poisoned). Skyler has a good chance of escaping prosecution through cooperation (the coordinates).
  • Walt was able to communicate, convincingly, to his wife that he didn’t kill Hank.
  • Walt died at the height of competence, doing what he loved to do and achieving his goals brilliantly.
  • At least for now, there will be no more blue meth in Albuquerque.
  • Jesse went free.

It was as close to a happy ending as Breaking Bad could have, without losing credibility. (If Walt had lived another five years, or if Jesse and his family had forgiven him, that would break credibility). No more good guys died. That was the twist. The series is still, of course, a tragedy; tragedies can end happily (modulo the means, which are rarely justified by the ends) so long as they are pervaded with suffering.

So why did that happen? Here’s my theory.

Breaking Bad is fundamentally about a man and his lies. We don’t know, for sure, why his scientific career failed. In fact, he worked at Sandia for some time after his exit from Gray Matter, so he almost certainly can’t blame Eliot and Gretchen for his underachievement. Besides, all objective evidence the show gives is that they’re fundamentally good people; Eliot offered Walt a job. My best guess at why Walter failed? Impostor syndrome. To Walter, the excellent career he should have had– even after Gray Matter, he’d have had a lot of options– felt like a lie. Being a weak man when young, he let that sabotage him.

Walter White is not from a wealthy or happy background. His mother is still alive, as hinted early in the series, but he has no contact with his parents and, for a man who claims to be all about family, that’s weird. Are Eliot and Gretchen (who Walter attacked as being a “rich girl” in “Peekaboo”) at fault for Walter’s failure? Of course not. He would have had a million options even after that. Yet out of some cocktail of deep-seated insecurity, latent anger, and contempt for humanity, he threw his promise away in exchange for a thoroughly mediocre life: a wife who never fully respected him, a crappy financial situation, and a suburban lifestyle that bored him.

In Season 1, we’re confronted with the end of his first big lie: that he was happy in the humdrum life for which he’d settled. Cancer wakes him up. He begins down the road to Heisenberg. He swings from lawful-good (lawful neutral?) meekness to chaotic-good badassery, as seen when he destroys an arrogant investment banker’s car, terrorizes his son’s bullies, and nearly kills Tuco with (“this is not meth”) mercury fulminate. That chaotic good character, sadly, cannot live for long in the drug world, which is evil but has its own laws, and therefore pulls a person right toward a lawful-evil attractor over time. He swings toward chaotic evil (deaths of Jane and Gale, poisoning of Brock) and then, when he’s a fully-fledged kingpin, goes back to lawful evil. It’s a continuous C-shaped arc through the law/chaos vs. good/evil space that is imperceptible from episode to episode, but clear when the series is seen in totality.

Cancer strikes again, at Season 5′s midpoint, and kills Walt’s second big lie: Heisenberg. He was happy, he was good at it, but he refused to admit this to himself. He was doing this horrible thing– that he never needed to do, considering Eliot’s job offer given in Season 1– “for his family”.

Throughout Series 5b, Walter White’s lawful evil waned as the cancer weakened him, and as his life fell to ruin despite his best efforts to keep it together. Morally, he settled– into “dead to rights” neutral. Not good, not evil, not lawful, not chaotic. Walter is a bad man– a moral failure, a fundamentally weak person driven into bad choices by his own damaged personality– but not an evil one. Toward the end of 5b, his ability to be truly bad, even, waned. There ceased to be a point in it. At the end, he was a pathetic man who could only buy friendship, at a steep price of $10,000 per hour.

If Walter had become “good”, it would have been a fuck-you of sorts to the numerous victims of real-world methamphetamine. It would have made Walter’s trajectory “OK”. That couldn’t happen. Walter never became good again; one could debate whether he ever was. In that last episode he was, however, honest. “I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it.”

Liberated from his decades of lies– the seemingly good-natured Eliot as the cause of his professional failure, the idea that he was ever happy in his underperforming suburban lifestyle, and the Heisenberg wish-fulfillment– he was able, at least, to summon the highest level of competence. He ended that way not because he was a man without choices, forced to protect his family. He did it for him. Yet everyone who deserved to die did, and not a man (or woman) more. Then the one who knocks, knocked off, pretty much on his own terms.

Had Walter been still mired in his lies, the ending wouldn’t have been nearly as happy. He might have killed Eliot and Gretchen in a vindictive rage, losing any chance of his family’s escape from the misery he created. He might have done his family in out of some hideous “mercy” justification. There are a million ways that, had Walter not broken away from his old self-deceptions, he could have ended things in a much worse way.

Oddly, the lack of a twist ending was the twist. Often, twist endings deal with concealment and artistic “dishonesty” that is rectified at the end. Here, there was no place for that. The lies that are torn apart in a drama’s ending were right in front of us the whole time, and their demolition was exactly what had to happen.

Don Draper’s firing and Silicon Valley

Spoiler Warning: Stop here if you watch Mad Men and aren’t caught up.

At the end of Season 6, Don Draper is fired, a move that many found surprising. One might argue that he has been “CTD” (circling the drain) for some time by that point, as the alcoholic dull spells that punctuate his flashes of brilliance have grown longer and deeper, and his necessity to the firm has declined in the wake of the merger that he (as it were) engineered. Still, the change is surprising at first, even if analysis shows it to be inevitable. (I will write, for this essay, as if Don’s termination were a fait accompli; I do it fully knowing that Season 7 will quite likely involve Don’s return to advertising, possibly in that firm. Don is not a usual person; he will bounce back, in some way, in the next season.)

Don used to be a creative artist. Toward the end, though, he hasn’t created a new ad for years. Instead, he comes up with inventive (but often sociopathic) solutions to business problems, establishing the reputation of a loose cannon. As we see in the mutiny at the end of Season 3, the anti-tobacco letter published after Lucky Strike fires the struggling new firm, and the complicated merger between his firm and that of his rival, Ted Chaough; he shines best, of late, when he’s moving people rather than product. He’s turned from a cynical, “black hat” intellectual who justifies hawking tobacco with jaded, post-beatnik nihilism, into a highly effective and manipulative businessman.

By the time he gets fired, he’s checked out from the daily work of the firm, so many predicted his professional demise (although I didn’t). He hasn’t been earning his keep. Then again, most of the other partners haven’t been earning theirs for years, if the truth’s to be told. This is still a time when partnership is to be a member of “the club” and enjoy the fruits of others’ labor. Sterling, Cooper has been quite tolerant of low performance in its partner-level ranks in the past. One of the perks of being in that club is a long professional audit cycle (generations). You get the benefit of the doubt for as long as you need it– unless you break the rules in a major way, which Don did, in Season 6′s finale.

How did Don get himself fired? Why did it happen now? It might seem to be an consequence of his horrendous pitch in front of Hershey, but he’s performed even more awfully in other pitches (see: Life cereal) and not come even close to that. His erratic performance isn’t a new problem. There’s something different about Season 6′s meltdown. This firm, after all, has tolerated his drunkenness, womanizing, lateness and absenteeism for some time. So what is it that has changed?

For one note, I’d like to call attention to a major player who’s not in the firing meeting: Ted Chaough. Ted and Don are rivals, and Don becomes nasty when they’re too close, but they still like each other on a personal level. They both suffer the same fate, which is to be permanently a junior partner on account of what they do. Account men are revenue, creative is cost; it was as true then as it is now. Ted would not try to push Don out; in fact, earlier on he implores him to become more involved in the firm (“join this company and read a memo!”). It’s Bert, Roger, and Jim who work him out of the firm, and I would argue that it’s largely because of the revelations pertaining to his background. Poor performance was forgivable when he was part of the club, but now that he’s told the truth about himself, he no longer belongs.

They’re not disgusted because Don lost Hershey’s, because they only had (from the sounds of it) a 1-in-30 chance anyway, and they seem to be cavalier about losing clients (as with Manischewitz, a couple episodes back). That firm– hardly a paragon of professionalism or optimal behavior– has had far more severe bungles than that. The disgust is with him, this time around. It’s not that the partners, individually, care about Don’s background. Bert knew most of Don’s secrets already. In fact, what’s worth keeping in mind about Roger and Bert is their flawlessly-played double-nature; their (admittedly, severe) character flaws come entirely out of their born social class; minus that, they’re decent human beings. As humans, they respect and like Don. As guardians of an upper class, however, they can no longer participate with him in that game of relationship-trading. Now that the beans (yes, pun intended) have been spilled in front of Hershey, it’s impossible to know for sure how far Don’s disclosures will travel. The gate-crasher must be tossed out, for fear of how others in the client sphere would receive his retention.

The commonality between Don Draper and Ted Chaough– the aspiration-driven, hopeful world they inhabit– shows the class-driven subordinate role of “creative”. Creative is almost always sourced from the lower, middle-and upper-middle classes (all lumped together as “Not Our Kind, Darling” by the upper class). Even if there weren’t a class-based lack of creativity in the elite– and I’d argue that there is one, due to risk aversion, entitlement, and inbreeding of both literal and figurative sorts– those bottom classes, taken together, are just two to three orders of magnitude larger. Relationship work can be done by any idiot with the right breeding, but creative talent is distributed by nature without regard to social class, and its attendant exertion has to come from the “hungry” outsiders. This also means that when the creative executives run out of ideas– and that’s inevitable, because the executive lifestyle is even more of a creativity-killer as the upper-class one– they’re tossed back where they came from. That’s Don’s future, as made clear even as the series began.

Don himself says that people tell us what they are, and we refuse to listen; in Season 1, he predicts exactly what will happen to him as well as to Pete Campbell, even though these predictions are so negative that one wishes not to believe them. For Pete, he predicts that his lack of interpersonal charisma and character will top him out as a mid-level executive no one likes. Check. Don predicts that he’ll age and run out of ideas, and then be devoured by younger, hungrier executives. Check, sort-of. Don seems to be his own worst enemy, not done in by others. Perhaps it is his past (nostalgia) that is the hungry, young executive to slay him. Since Season 1 he has understood, intuitively, that Bert and Roger (and even Pete) are the natural inhabitants of his world, while he’s just a passer-through. Ted and Peggy, like Harry Crane, will find their ways to other pastures. He won’t. Dick Whitman might remain alive, biologically, for another thirty years, but Don Draper is that job and when it ends, so does he.

Dick Whitman knows how to kill Don Draper, and lose his toehold in the New York advertising world. He tells the truth about himself. He does it in an embarrassing and costly way, but it’s what he reveals– not the cost to the firm of the revelation– that gets him shown the door. Don could run horrible lies and get away with almost anything; but once he lets the truth out, his professional life is over.

This is where it gets personal.

I don’t post about my own life that much. I’ve mentioned negative experiences at Google, neutral-to-positive experiences in finance, and let on that I’m a damn good programmer with strong mathematical skills. That I’m 30 years old and live in New York and like functional programming is not hidden, either. Still, people probably have a sketchy view of what I’ve done professionally and where I’m trying to go. About myself, I’m less comfortable sharing than most people are on the Internet. Yet, on the deeper, society-wide issues, I’ve also spent a lot of time in 2012 and 2013 trying to do something that few people have: in the public, find the truth. That’s why I’ve gone farther into the rabbit hole of the software world’s sociology than most people have the courage to go (in the public, by their real names). Boy, has that led to some real pain. I haven’t even begun to describe some of the things that have happened to me once I started doing that: unreasonable professional losses, threats, and inexplicable behavior around me. I’ve been through hell and I’m still burning; but, from a distance, to burn is to shine.

Despite my interest in public truth, I keep it hard for the Internet to know much about me. That’s because my own personality is not what’s interesting. I’m actually a run-of-the-mill, fairly typical guy in most ways. I come from an average background, look like an average person, et cetera. As a person, I’m not that interesting, and I don’t wish to be. What is interesting is the underlying and general truth that we need to discover to move society forward, and it’s an accident of fate that has left me extremely well-equipped to do it. I wasn’t born to be the one who’d coin the term “open allocation” and thus become the savior (if I am effective, that is) of technology. There’s no prophecy behind it and certainly no genetic superiority (trust me, I have none). That was just luck. Yet, here I am with a unique array of experiences that has left me able to pose (and sometimes, to answer) some of the most important questions of the technological economy? For example, why has the formerly most creative industry out there (small-company technology) fallen so quickly into decline, and how do we fix that? Can we do it? What types of structures (financial, cultural, and technological) will we need to invent to solve the problem?

For a second, I will get into some personal stuff, even at risk of embarrassment. It doesn’t take much work to figure out that I was a gray-hat troll in the 2000s. It was a hard habit to kick, because I have intermittent hypergraphia (compulsive writing). When I was an angry, broken person, that led to some angry and broken writing. I created some bizarre, fictional internet characters, many of which (and I’m thankful for this) have never been connected to me. However, some of that stuff was easy to find, at least at one time, and trace to me. Yet it never interfered with my career, at least not to my knowledge. Gray-hat trolling is seen (correctly) as a weird often-public hobby. It has never “caught up” with me or done any professional harm, but I’m actually pretty embarrassed by it. If ultimately harmless, it’s still fundamentally dishonest to create weird fictional personalities and convince others that they’re real. Worst of all, it was a gigantic waste of time. Yet, I “got away” with it completely. It probably made me seem a little bit strange and, at the time, would have precluded leadership opportunities if found– but I was also in my mid-20s, so that wasn’t an issue– in its time.

What has hurt my career is the white-hat stuff: truthful revelations about organizational behavior, specific companies and what they did wrong, and general willingness to state obvious but undesired truths about the software career and the sociological forces preventing technological progress. We now lose hundreds of billions, if not trillions, of dollars per year to bad software management. Yet the consequences of simply revealing such things have been, in my experience, severe.

My trolling past has shown that one can be offensive and horrible and flagrant as long and get away from it as long as one lies; because lies from non-credible sources (and let’s be honest, that’s 99.9% of us) are ineffectual and harmless. They’re entertainment. Truth, on the other hand, is a deadly weapon and a feared one, because it doesn’t matter who holds it. The power of a lie is directly proportionate to the social status of the liar, and most of us have such minimal social status as to be harmless to those in charge. Truth, on the other hand, has eternal and status-independent power, which makes it dangerous.

Tell a lie as a non-credible agent, and you’ll be cancelled out by the rest of the world, as it generates a noise haze of counter-lies and oblique lies and inept supporting lies and uncomfortable humor that weaken your case and render what you said irrelevant. The people with stakes in reputations can count on the lie having no long-term net effect. Tell the truth, on the other hand, and there’s a risk (albeit a small one, moral courage often being thin on the ground) that the world will move with that revelation, as more people come out to confirm it. Truth is gunpowder (an equalizer) and the upper-caste sword-wielders (credible liars) can’t stand for anyone to have it.

Now, I’ll return to Mad Men. Don Draper’s truth isn’t just that he grew up in a coal-country whorehouse. There’s a lot more to it than that. To start, he establishes his pitch as a lie, pointing out that advertisement exploits untrue stories and what people want to believe. That’s not a truth to share with a client. Another unstated truth he brings out is that no one will accept his true upbringing, because there is supposed to be no one like him in a high position in that sort of firm. He duped the whole firm into buying his prestige. Account men come from the generational upper class, and creative comes from the Ivy upper-middle, and people like Dick Whitman shouldn’t even be on the floor, unless running the elevator. The humiliation of the firm comes from the revelation– in front of Hershey’s upper management, since the partners would probably accept the fact if known only to them– that they let him in.

Bert Cooper and Roger Sterling were duped, and they were happy to be duped when he was a brilliant creative executive. Being relatively progressive by upper class standards, they recognize prestige as an elaborate lie, so learning about Don’s charlatanry made no difference so long as he delivered. However, when he makes Hershey aware of his gate-crashing, the damage is so severe that he must be thrown out with the trash.

Finally, there’s a major truth, revealed throughout the show, about advertisement’s self-selling as a “creative” industry. Creativity (in advertising) takes a second-class standing relative to the corrosive politicking for which Pete and Bob Benson are so well-known. Peggy and Don take pride in their creative work, and Ted additionally takes pride (MacLeod Clueless?) in his leadership ability– he’s the only decent boss on the show. Yet none of the stuff matters. Not one of the creatives is present in (or even aware of) the decision to fire Don, because their opinions don’t merit concern. Creatives are just high-end light bulbs to be used, burned out, and discarded. That’s a truth that’s relevant to this day. Recall what I said about creative being cost centers and account men being revenue-producers. (Of course, creative work drives the long-term health of the firm, but that’s irrelevant to the year-by-year decisions around promotions and firings.)  The upper class naturally gravitate toward the unsexy but leverage-providing revenue-center roles, and leave creative cost centers for the marginal people who need to prove themselves to stay in the game.

Replace “Madison Avenue” with “VC-funded Silicon Valley” and “copywriters” with “software engineers”. Conclude your own about that ecosystem and its fate, noting that the glory days of Madison Avenue ended a couple years after the events of the recent series. VC-istan is the successor to the world of Mad Men, with the same soul-devouring politics, except it’s even more of a sausage fest.

Don– to exploit the metaphor, the most honest whore in the brothel– has just burned out of an industry founded upon lies. He’s brought in truth. He didn’t belong, he got in anyway; and about a decade later, he fired himself on his own terms. A few stray flames are smoldering and truth is breaking through, but the total conflagration is yet to come. (Advertising will be just fine, but its “white-shoe” reputation and cachet will fall away in less than a decade.) Don has angered Power enough for it to come in to an office at 9:00 on Thanksgiving morning. Old lies are breaking down– that process started long before Don got in– but the consequences for revealing truth, in such a time, can be severe.

So it is, too, with VC-istan. Truth is breaking through. It has had, over the past two months, some excruciating revelations, between Sean Parker’s wedding, the revelation of inappropriate data usage, FWD.us, and various morale crises among software engineers that will not go away until terms improve. The exceptionalist acceptance once applied to technology’s new barons is waning. The edifice of lies is inflamed, and no one knows what will happen next. The only sure thing is that it will be fun to watch. As with Mad Men, all that most of us can do is wait, stay alive, and then enjoy the next season.

Breaking Men: bookends of the American Era.

WARNING: spoilers (Mad Men, Breaking Bad) ahead.

AMC has developed, over the past five years, two television shows of extremely high quality that seem unrelated: Mad Men and Breaking Bad. The first centers on Madison Avenue in the 1960s, and it depicts the ascendancy of the “WASP” upper-middle-class into a makeshift upper class, following the power vacuum created by the evisceration of the old elite in the 1930s and ’40s, while they are chased up those stairs by social upheaval and their own obsolescence. The lions of Mad Men become rich, aggressive businesspeople because they are getting old and there is nothing else for them to do. Although it can be cynical and morose, the show is eros-driven, focused on an elite sector of the economy responsible for literally building the American middle-class culture, with still-new and exciting products like air travel, automobiles, and (well…) mass-produced, cheap tobacco cigarettes. What pervades the show is that these people should be happy: they’re rich and important people in the most powerful country on earth in what seems like the most exciting time in history, with passenger air travel a reality and space tourism “inevitable” within 25 years. (About that…)

An interesting exercise regarding Mad Men is to think of its environment and its characters within a modern context. Most young professionals (outside of technology, where their jobs hardly existed that long ago) agree that the “golden age” was decades ago, when hours were short and, though it was harder to get in the door of top firms, career advancement once in them was virtually guaranteed (for a man, at least). Peggy and Don, who are frequently in the office at 7 o’clock, seem remarkably dedicated in comparison to their drunken colleagues. Whether this depiction of young professional life in the 1960s as a “golden age” is accurate is a matter of much controversy, and Mad Men takes both sides. On one hand, Pete Campbell, under 30 and not especially well-compensated at the time, is able to buy (!) a house in Manhattan for $32,000 ($230,000 in today’s dollars). On the other, the work environment is full of fear and authority (Pete is almost fired for pitching his own idea to a client) and social anxieties are so severe that self-medication with alcohol and cigarettes is a necessity. A bit of useful context is that it wasn’t at all normal or socially acceptable for professionals to leave jobs, as it is now, except for obvious promotions like first-day partnership in the new firm. So getting fired or demoted unto departure wasn’t the annoyingly unexpected, unpaid, 6-week vacation it is today: it could spell long-term ruin (cf. Duck Phillips). Every character in Mad Men lives on the brink of career disaster, and they know it.

If there is a more present comparison for the advertising world of the 1960s, it would be investment banking between 1980 and 2008: a lucrative, selective, cutthroat, and often morally compromised industry whose cachet entitled it to the middle-third of Ivy League students– people who were clearly capable, but not so capable as to be walking authority conflicts. On the same token, advertising was far more creative an industry (at least at junior levels, and within the confines of the law) than investment banking could ever be. Also, in the 1960s Silicon Valley wasn’t on the map, and air travel was still prohibitively expensive for many people, so the creative and entrepreneurial East Coasters who might be drawn to California in 2009 would have, instead, been drawn into advertising in New York. This created a very different mix than the cultural homogeneity of modern investment banking. In 2012, these people wouldn’t have been anywhere close to each other. Pushing them forward fifty years, Peggy would be an elite graphic artist with some serious coding chops, but living on a very moderate income and an hour away from Manhattan by train. Pete would be a pudgy private equity associate, far sleazier and less charming than his 1960s counterpart. Roger Stirling probably would have gone into law and, despite being utterly mediocre, attended Harvard Law, entered a white-shoe (“biglaw”) firm, and made partner based on his family connections. Harry Crane would be in Los Angeles, but wise enough to the times not to enter the entertainment industry proper; he’d be third co-founder (5% equity holding) of a “disruptive” internet startup about to become a thorn in MTV’s side. These four would have nothing to do with each other and probably never meet at all. Joan? It’s hard to say where she’d be or what she’d be doing, but she’d be good at it. Don is even harder to place, being a zeitgeist in the true sense of the word. His character wouldn’t exist if shifted 10 years in either direction. He’s a pure product of the Great Depression, the Korean War, and the 1950s-60s ascendancy of the U.S. middle class. Dick Whitman would have taken an entirely different path. My assessment of how he would rise (into venture capital, rather than advertising, with the first half of his career established in the developing world in the 1990s) I will delay to another post, needing in this one to dedicate time to a seemingly opposite show: Breaking Bad. 

Mad Men opens the American Era on the coast where the sun rises, and Breaking Bad closes it in the rocky, red desert where the sun almost sets. Walter White is, in many ways, the opposite of Don Draper: fifteen years older at the story’s onset, but three decades older in spirit, a failed chemist who squandered his genius, a schoolteacher eventually fired for misconduct, and a man who turns to vicious crime out of a deep hatred (rather than a manipulative and cynical dismissal, like Draper harbors) of society. Draper is might be an allusion to the cloak he’s covered over himself; White begins the show naked (almost literally). He’s a feeble, desperate man who has wasted his genius (for reasons left unclear, but that seem connected to his massive ego and a callously discarded relationship) to become a mediocre teacher in a mediocre school who works at a car wash on his weekends to support a family. In the first episode, he gets sick with a cancer that his shitty health insurance won’t cover. Out of financial desperation, he teams up with one of his failed students to cook methamphetamine.

Draper seems to glide into advertising, almost by accident. Dick Whitman didn’t assume Draper’s identity because he wanted to become an ad magnate; he did it to escape a war when he found the effort to be pointless. He rose with the rising tide of the American middle class, and was wily enough to come up a bit faster than the rest. On the other hand, Walter White’s simultaneous ascendancy (into the drug underworld) and free-fall (into moral depravity) occur by brute force, although only some of the force is his. The world is collapsing, and he becomes somewhat weightless by falling with it, but in full awareness of the thud at the bottom. That Walter will be dead or ruined and humiliated by the end of the fifth and final season seems obvious at this point; the open question is how far down he will go (morally speaking) and whether he will gain a tragic recognition of the misery he has inflicted upon his family and the world.

The catalyst for Walter White’s turn to crime is a diagnosis of lung cancer, giving him about a year to live. It may be a stretch to connect this with Mad Men, but one of their primary products is Lucky Strike cigarettes, featured prominently in the first episode (“Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”) and throughout the season. Mad Men features an optimistic, future-loving backdrop of industrial ascent and capitalistic triumph. Breaking Bad‘s backdrop is of industrial waste, wreckage, pollution, and toxicity. Most obvious is Walter’s product, which is an artistically pure form of one of humanity’s most poisonous products– crystal meth, nicknamed “Blue Sky” because of its extremely high quality and blue color. Drug kingpin Gus Fring hides behind a fried-foods chain arguably responsible (in small part) for American obesity, while Walter’s megalab resides in a squalid laundry outfit. Industrial capitalism’s messes are everywhere. Walter’s cancer illustrates the invasiveness of toxicity: the damage lives within the protagonist’s body, and threatens to kill him at any time.

Connecting Breaking Bad to the demise of the American middle class in general is relatively straightforward. Almost all of the major causes of American decline (and the collapse of its middle class) are featured, albeit most indirectly, in this show. The international, big-picture causes of American decline are (a) international violence, (b) the coddling of our parasitic upper class (resulting in, among other things, irresponsible deficit spending) and (c) our reliance on polluting, increasingly scarce, 20th-century energy sources, of which Breaking Bad features two of these three. The first is featured prominently, in the never-ending and international cycles of violence involving Gus Fring, the Mexican Cartel, Tuco, “the Cousins”, Hector, and Hank. The second of these decline factors (parasitic upper class) is shown indirectly– through Walter White’s turn to parasitism, the callous sleaze of Saul Goodman, the two-faced upper-middle-class respectability of Gus Fring, the illegal financing behind Skyler’s “American Dream” of owning a business, and the depressing failure of small business-owner Ted Beneke and his industrial-era enterprise.

Those are the big-picture causes of American decline, which aren’t terribly relevant to Breaking Bad and its laser focus on one man. The finer-grained and more individual causes of the American middle class are the “Satanic trinity”: education costs, housing, and healthcare. Each makes an appearance in Breaking Bad, and healthcare most prominently, with Walter being forced into crime by uncovered expenses associated with his cancer. Albuquerque did not experience the mostly-coastal housing bubble, so housing makes a passive cameo in the destruction of it: Ted Beneke is killed by his house, while Walter and Jesse’s hideout (a home Jesse would inherit if he were better behaved) is ruined it a rather morbid way– a body is to be disposed-of using acid, and Jesse uses the bathtub instead of acid-resistant plastic, destroying the tub, bathroom, floor and house in a blow-down of liquefied human remains. The third of these, education, is only featured at the show’s outset: White is a brilliant but uninspired and miserable educator, and Jesse is a failed ex-student of his. Education cannot be featured further in Breaking Bad because education focuses on the future, and all its characters reliably have is the present. This extreme and desperate present-focus is also what makes Walter’s family (aside from his clear desire to protect them) deeply uninteresting (to the viewer). Walter’s son is disabled but of high intelligence and possibly has an interesting future, but for now he’s just an expensive and typically difficult high-school student. His daughter is an infant, and Walter will almost certainly not see her reach adulthood. Walter may wish to give them a future, but for now his focus is only on immediate survival.

If Breaking Bad is about the decline of the American middle-class, it’s also about poison and the impossibility of containing it. Walter White begins the show with cancer– a parasitic clump of useless cells that kills the host by (among other things) releasing poison into the body. Realizing his life’s failure, and that he’ll be leaving his family with nothing, he begins his life of crime, which is also the only way he can afford treatment for his illness. Walter beats the cancer (for now, as of the end of Season 4) but in doing so he becomes the cancer. He’s fired from his job as a schoolteacher, signifying the end of his useful social function. He mutates into a useless “cell” and begins releasing poison, in enormous doses measured in hundreds of pounds per week of crystal meth, into society. What Breaking Bad also shows us is that toxicity can never be contained, at least not permanently. The acid intended to dissolve a corpse destroys a home. Hamlet, the notorious Shakespearean antihero, only killed eight. By the end of Season 4, Walter is indirectly responsible for a mid-air plane crash (that would have been national news if real) over a major city that killed 168 people, he has cost his brother-in-law his career and physical function, he has murdered several people, and he has placed his family directly in danger.

Mad Men and Breaking Bad may be entirely unconnected in their origins. These dramas exist in entirely different worlds, fifty years, half a continent, and at least one social class apart. The shows appear to have nothing to do with each other, aside from extrinsic aspects such as the cable channel (AMC) that distributes them. In fact, they’re connected only by the broad-but-thin story arc of American ascendancy, calamity, and decline.

There are two riddles posed in quick succession in Godel, Escher, Bach. The first is to find an eight-letter word whose middle four letters are “ADAC”. The second is to find an eight-letter word whose first two letters, and its last two, are “HE”. Presented separately, both of these are very hard. I can only think of one word that solves each. Presented together, the riddle becomes much easier. I have similar thoughts about the unspoken (and quite possibly unrealized by the shows’ creators) connection between these two television shows. These shows are only companions if one knows the rest of the story, which is that a historical incarnation of the American nation (20th-century, middle-class) was born in the time of one and died in that of the other. Otherwise, they could have been set in entirely different worlds.

As Mad Men advances, the optimism of the era becomes clear. An enormous rocket ship is launching, and the characters’ anxiety comes from the fear that they might not be (or might not deserve to be) on it. What they foresee least of all is what will actually happen. Catastrophic urban decay in the 1970s and ’80s, especially in New York? Yeah right, that’s impossible. Too much money in these cities. Investment banking (a bland WASP safety career) eclipsing advertising as “the” coveted (and far slimier) “prestige” industry? Not possible; those guys are morons. The re-emergence of America’s defeated, obsolete upper class in the 1980s, symbolized by the election of a third-rate, once-leftist actor to the presidency? Impossible; all politics is center-left (cf. Eisenhower, Kennedy, Nixon) these days. The rapid transition of the authoritarian, leftist, communist assholes into authoritarian, right-wing “neoconservatives” who’d get us into unwinnable wars in the Middle East? Just ridiculous. An emergent and militaristic American upper class representing more of a threat to national and world security than the Soviet Union, which will implode in the late 1980s? Insane concept. The world in which the Mad Men live is shaking, and the perception that it’s about to be destroyed is very real, but no one can envision how it will be destroyed, or why. None can foresee the coming misery or spot its sources; all eyes are on that rocket ship. In Breaking Bad, we see the wreckage after that rocket comes back to earth five decades later, slamming into the cold New Mexico desert, and annihilating the middle (class, and geographical center) of an entire nation when it lands.

Breaking Bad is more personal and ahistoric than Mad Men. Walter White doesn’t care about “America” or the middle class or what is going to happen to either, because he’s not trying to exploit macroscopic social trends; he is just trying to survive, and he exploits human weakness (an ahistorical source) because it’s there. Bad‘s backdrop is the decay of “Middle America”, just as Requiem for a Dream is set against the calamitous end of the New York middle class, but it’s a story that could be told in any time. Its relevance is maximized by its currency, and the involvement of health insurance (instead of say, gambling debt) as a proximate cause of Walter White’s turn to crime suggests the current era and an external locus of original fault, but the personal and tragic elements of Walter’s story could be given another backdrop.

Breaking Bad does, however, belong in a technological society such as ours just as Mad Men belongs in a time of colored-pencil creativity and innovation. Both Mad Men and Breaking Bad grapple with morality, but the latter does so more fiercely. Mad Men illustrates the application of mediocre artistic talent to a legitimate purpose of low social value, in the pursuit of vain narcissism and reckless ambition. Breaking Bad features the application of extreme scientific talent to outright evil, in the pursuit of mere survival amid a world that is collapsing both on a personal (Walter’s cancer) and national (health “insurance”) scale.

What do these television shows tell us about ourselves and our history? First of all, Mad Men is set amid the birth of an American society, but not the first one. The American nation (as a people, united by ideas, though those ideas have evolved immensely over time) has existed for over three hundred years, and been remarkably flexible and mostly progressive (the recent turn toward political corruption, corporate coddling, millenarian religious superstition, xenophobia, and even misogyny by the conservative movement is a blip, taking a historical perspective). Just as “America” (as a nation) existed long before there was a Madison Avenue, it will persist long after the flaming wreckage of “health insurance” (i.e. the business model of taking money from the well and robbing them when sick, because sick people don’t fight thieves but the well have the money) and methamphetamine and the storm of underemployed talent (Walter White, the failed chemistry genius; unemployed Ph.Ds in #Occupy) pass, as these calamities inevitably will. Mad Men is anxiously erotic while Breaking Bad is fatally thanatoptic, representing the birth and death of just one society that will exist on this soil, but one must keep in mind that these are bookends merely of a society, not the first or last one that will exist in this nation. Walter White will probably die in his 50s, but his daughter may see a better world.

An interesting question is, “What’s between these shows?” Fifty years pass between two television dramas that, aside from historical alignment, have nothing to do with each other and are, in many ways, opposites. What would a 1980s counterpart feature? The best answer that I can come up with is that none should exist. Spring and autumn are the beautiful, unpredictable, gone-too-fast seasons that remind us of our mortality. Mad Men is set in May, and there are a few great days in it, but the May it gets is mostly the sickly humid kind where each day is either damp and rainy or oppressively hot, and in which February’s chill (the Great Depression, the wars, Dick Whitman’s miserable childhood) remains in the elders’ bones and will be there forever. Breaking Bad occurs in November, but not the beautiful, temperate red-leaf kind associated with northeastern forests; this autumn is set in a featureless desert where it’s cold and overcast but will never rain. With that said, to feature this American era’s dog days (the 1980s) seems artistically irresponsible, largely because it was a time of very little historical value. That era, that feeble summer in which America’s old parasitic elite (whose slumber made the middle-class good times of Mad Men possible, who used lingering racist sentiment to re-establish themselves in the 1970s and ’80s, and whose metastasis damaged that middle class and made the misery of Breaking Bad inevitable) re-asserted itself, doesn’t deserve the honor. Just my opinion, of course, and I was born in that time so I cannot say nothing of value came from it. Still, to put a forty-year asterisk between these two eras seems highly appropriate.

If nothing else, no one wants to see the point where the rocket, badly launched and at a speed below escape velocity, reaches its zenith and begins careening toward Earth.